Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Read online

  Those within earshot laughed.

  Lenny Fletcher wasn’t the only one listening with interest to the conversation. Brax Barlow, who hadn’t been in the saloon long enough to drink his first beer, was standing at the far end of the bar also listening. But his interest was less in Crowley than it was in the man who they said had killed Crowley. When it was mentioned that the one who’d killed Crowley was the same one who had killed the two stagecoach robbers, he began following the conversation with more interest.

  “This man, Matt Jensen,” Brax said. “Are you sure he’s the one that saved the stagecoach?”

  “He’s the one all right. They say he kilt two of the robbers, and sent the other ’n a’ skedaddlin’.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” Brax said.

  “What for?” Doomey asked.

  “I’d like to shake his hand. I mean, a good citizen like that, who wouldn’t want to shake his hand?”

  “Well, More’n likely, you’ll find him down at the Texas Star. Leastwise, that’s where he was when I left over there, and that warn’t more ’n a couple minutes ago.”

  “Where is the Texas Star?”

  “It’s up at the other end of town, on Railroad Street,” Doomey told him. “You can’t miss it. It’s the only saloon over on Railroad Street.”

  “You won’t like the drinks down there, though,” Bramley called to him as he started toward the door. “Hawkins tells his bartender to water ’em.”

  Carter was sweating, and grunting, and thrusting against the woman who lay beneath him. She was totally inert, neither resisting nor reacting to him.

  “Why don’t you help a bit?” Carter asked.

  “You’re not paying me enough for that,” Lila replied.

  Carter was beginning to wonder if he would even be able to finish, when he heard a loud knock on the door.

  “Bill! Bill, it’s me!”

  Carter stopped in mid thrust. If there was anything he didn’t need now, it was to be interrupted.

  “Uhmm, honey, that was good,” Lila said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Are you finished now?”

  “What?” Carter replied, loudly and angrily.

  “Bill! Bill, come to the door!”

  “I told you I would come get you!” Carter yelled. “Can’t you wait your turn?”

  “That ain’t it. It’s somethin’ else. Somethin’ important,” Fletcher yelled through the door.

  “Honey, iffen you’re finished, get offen me so’s I can get myself cleaned up for your friend.”

  “I’m not . . .” Carter started; then, realizing that he had lost all interest, he sighed and rolled off her. “Never mind,” he said.

  Fletcher continued to bang on the door.

  “Open the door for my friend,” Carter said.

  “I’m naked, honey. I don’t have any clothes on,” Lila said.

  “What the hell does that matter? He’s goin’ to see you naked in a few minutes anyway.”

  Carter got up; then he looked back at Lila and pointed at her. “All right, I’ll answer the door, but you stay there in bed ’til I tell you you can get up.” He walked over to the door and jerked it open. “What do you want?” he asked. Then, realizing that he was standing naked in the doorway, he stepped back. “Come on in,” he said.

  “It’s Crowley,” Fletcher said as he stepped on into the room.

  “You mean Morgan?”

  “No, I mean Crowley. Ever’ one knows about him now, since he’s been kilt.”

  “Kilt? Wait a minute. Are you sayin’ Crowley’s been kilt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who kilt him?”

  “Matt Jensen.”

  “Jensen? Son of a bitch, that’s the one Crowley told us about, ain’t it? The one that put him jail when they was goin’ to hang him? What the hell is he doin’ way down here? Are you sure it was Matt Jensen that kilt him?”

  “I’m sure, all right. Seems some men tried to hold up a stagecoach today, and Jensen kilt two of ’em, an’ run a third one off.”

  “Yeah, well, Crowley said he was a corker. So, Crowley got hisself kilt, did he? Why did you come bangin’ on the door, disturbin’ me? What does him gettin’ hisself kilt have to do with us?”

  “Think about it,” Fletcher said. “Now that ever’ one knows who Crowley was, that means that, more’n likely they’re goin’ to know about the bank robbery, and the killin’s up in Kansas. And, they’ll know we’ve been runnin’ with him, and they’ll start puttin’ two and two together.”

  “Shhh,” Carter said. He glanced over at Lila, but it appeared that she either had not heard or hadn’t put anything together.

  “I don’t think she heard nothin’.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we should get out of here,” Carter said.

  “Not yet,” Fletcher said. He grabbed himself and looked over toward the whore, then smiled. “I ain’t had my time yet.”

  “And I ain’t finished with my time,” Carter said. “It was just goin’ good when you come up and started bangin’ on the door. You’re just goin’ to have to wait.”

  “Why do I have to wait?” Fletcher asked with a bawdy smile. “We’re sharin’ her anyway, ain’t we?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After leaving the Texas Star, Matt Jensen walked down to the stagecoach depot, where he was warmly greeted by Dusty Reasoner. Reasoner was talking to another man, average sized, bald except for a ringlet of gray hair that passed around his head just above his ears.

  “Mr. Jensen, good to see you again. Mr. Tobin, this is Matt Jensen. He’s the fella I was tellin’ you about.”

  “Mr. Tobin,” Matt said.

  “Dusty told me what you did for us today, and you have my thanks,” Tobin said.

  “There wasn’t much to it. I just happened to be there at the right time.”

  “Yes, but a lot of people, even if they had been there, would have been too frightened to get involved. You got involved, and for that, I thank you.”

  Matt knew that Tobin’s comment about a lot of people not getting involved was right, but he didn’t address it.

  “I heard you just had another—let us call it an adventure,” Tobin said. “Word is we just lost another marshal, and that you killed the man who killed the marshal.”

  “Yes,” Matt replied without elaboration. He wasn’t really surprised at how fast the news traveled. He had been in small towns before and was well aware of the effectiveness of word of mouth.

  “Well, that’s some consolation. I’m sure you’ve already heard that we’ve had three marshals killed before this one. At least, this time the killer didn’t get away with it.”

  “I hope you’re not leavin’ us so quick,” Dusty said. “Did you come to get your horse, or just to check on him? ’Cause if all you want to do is check on him, you can step back there and have a look. You’ll see that he’s getting along just fine.”

  “Thanks, but actually I have come for my saddlebags. I’m going to take a much needed bath, and I’ll be needing a change of clothes.”

  “Ahh, no problem. I brought your tack in. It’s right over there in the corner.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  Matt slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, then, with a nod of good-bye, walked down to the Model Barbershop, where a sign in front proudly proclaimed:

  HAIR CUTS–SHAVES–BATHS

  SHOES AND BOOTS SHINED

  A small bell on the door rang as he pushed it open, and a man wearing a long white coat came from the back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’d like a bath.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get the hot water for you.”

  “I didn’t notice, is there a laundry in town?”

  The barber smiled. “You came to the right place. Fu Kwan has a place in the alley, just behind the barbershop, and he does a real bang-up job.”

  “It’s getting pretty late. Is he still open?”

  “Chinamen don’t never sleep. Didn’t you know that?”
r />   Matt chuckled. “I didn’t know that. That must be a piece of knowledge that escaped me.”

  When Brax Barlow reached the Texas Star, he saw a wagon parked out front. There was a body in the wagon, covered by a shroud, with only the feet sticking out. Going inside the saloon, he saw another body lying on the floor, with a few people looking down at it. He stepped up to the bar.

  “I saw a body in a wagon out front, and now this one. Which one is Mutt Crowley?”

  “This one is,” the bartender said. “The fella in the wagon out front is our town marshal. That is, he was our town marshal. Now he’s dead. Crowley kilt him, then Crowley got hisself kilt.”

  “Who kilt Crowley?”

  The bartender smiled. “None other than Matt Jensen. I reckon you’ve heard of Matt Jensen, ain’t you?”

  “Is he the one who kilt the two men out on the road?”

  “You mean the two outlaws that was tryin’ to hold up the stage? Yep, he’s the one.”

  “Where is he now? This Matt Jensen fella, I mean?”

  “More than likely he’s down at the barbershop, getting himself a bath,” Hawkins said.

  Brax felt a bit of apprehension over the new man who’d joined the conversation. He recognized him as one of stagecoach passengers, and he was concerned that, despite the hood he’d worn, this man might recognize him.

  “He’s goin’ to be having dinner with Miss Annabelle O’Callahan. Now, if you were you going to be having dinner with a pretty woman like that, wouldn’t you want to get all gussied up?” Hawkins asked.

  Brax breathed a bit easier. It was obvious that he had not been recognized.

  “Damn,” one of the other customers said. “Wait a minute! You mean to say that Annabelle O’Callahan is havin’ dinner someone that just come into town today? She ain’t never had dinner with no other man in town, as far as I can recollect.”

  “Maybe she just has better taste than to have anything to do with anyone in town,” Hawkins teased.

  Brax turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Hawkins called, and Brax froze in his tracks. Had he been recognized?

  “Do you know Jensen? Do you want to leave a message for him?”

  Brax breathed easier. “No, I don’t know him. I’ve just heard a lot about him is all, and I thought I’d like to meet him.”

  “Well, I haven’t known him all that long,” Hawkins said. “And I know he’s famous and all, but he strikes me as a man who doesn’t like to be fawned over. So I would remember that, if I were you.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Brax said. “I reckon I’ll just take a look at him from some distance, just so that someday I can tell folks I’ve seen him.” Brax hurried on out the door.

  “That was sort of a strange fella,” the bartender said after Brax was gone.

  “Yes, he was,” Hawkins agreed.

  “Hey, Gerald,” one of the patrons called. “How long does this stinky son of a bitch have to lie on the floor in here?”

  “Ponder promised to come back for him as soon as he got the marshal’s body delivered,” Hawkins said.

  “What about his chips? They’re still on the table.”

  “I don’t know, what do you think we should do with his chips, Mr. Culpepper?”

  “Looks to me like there’s enough to buy a round of drinks,” Culpepper replied, and the others let out a cheer as they rushed toward the bar.

  Matt was, at this very moment, sitting in the bathtub in the back of the Model Barbershop. He had finished his bath, but he had stayed in the tub until the hot water began to cool, remaining there because it was relaxing to a body that was sore from several days of being in the saddle as well as sleeping on the ground.

  He was just about to get out of the tub when he heard someone speaking very loudly from outside.

  “Sir, you can’t go in there! I told you, the bathing room is occupied!” Matt recognized the barber’s voice.

  “Get the hell out of my way, or I’ll shoot you too!” a gruff voice replied.

  Quickly, Matt stepped out of the tub, then moved over into the corner, where he pulled his pistol from the holster.

  The door to the bathing room was pushed open and a man stepped inside.

  “You son of a bitch, I’m goin’ to kill you!” the man shouted. Pointing his pistol toward the bathtub, he began blazing away, the gunshots unbelievably loud in the little room. The bullets splashed into the water of the vacated bath tub. The intruder fired until the hammer began to fall repeatedly on chambers that were no longer charged.

  “Where the hell are you, you son of a bitch?” the intruder shouted as, frustrated, he continued to pull the trigger, getting nothing in return but empty metallic clicks.

  “I’m over here,” Matt said casually, speaking from the corner.

  “What?”

  “Barber?” Matt called. “Would you get the deputy, please?”

  Tentatively, the barber looked into the room and saw Matt, standing naked in the corner, holding his pistol on the intruder. He smiled when he saw that the danger was passed.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen, I’ll get him right away,” the barber said.

  Doing a balancing act, and passing his gun from hand to hand, Matt pulled on a pair of pants.

  “You want to tell me why you were trying to kill me?” Matt asked.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “How am I supposed to know? I never saw you before one minute ago when you barged in here shooting. What’s your name?”

  “The name is Barlow. Braxton Barlow.”

  “Why were trying to kill me, Braxton Barlow?”

  “Them two men you kilt out on the road today was my brothers,” Barlow said.

  “Were you with them?”

  “No, I—uh—I wouldn’t just ride off and leave my brothers like that.”

  “Who said anything about anyone riding off?”

  “Nobody, uh, I mean, I heard people talking.”

  “I see. Well, Barlow, when you go into the business of stagecoach robbing, you have to be prepared to take the consequences. And more times than not, those consequences could mean getting yourself killed.”

  Wash Prescott had just left the mayor’s office, and was walking down the street with his hands thrust down in his pockets, and his eyes looking at the ground. When he’d agreed to take on the job of deputy there were some who had told him he was crazy for taking the job, that he was too old. They were right about his age, because he was fifty-eight years old, and that was too old to be an active lawman.

  But that was the thing. Prescott was not an active lawman, not in the sense that he would ever actually be involved in confronting an outlaw. Those who wondered why he had taken the job simply hadn’t figured out Prescott’s reasoning. First of all, there was no real physical labor, nothing that required him to do heavy lifting, or shoveling, or swinging an ax or a pick or a hammer.

  Physically, the job was pretty easy, because most of the time all he did was stay in the marshal’s office and keep an eye on the jail inmates. And although Shady Rest was beginning to get a reputation for lawlessness, especially with four marshals killed in four months, not one of the serious lawbreakers had been caught.

  That meant that the only inmates who were in jail were there for minor infractions, such as public drunkenness, or vagrancy. Hell, Prescott even passed the time by playing cards with them. And truth to tell, though nobody in town knew it, Prescott had had his own experience with jail when, as a much younger man, he had served five years for armed robbery in the Ohio State Penitentiary.

  As it turned out, that five years, occurring as it had during the Civil War, had kept him from going into the Army and, perhaps, being killed. And if he hadn’t turned his life around he could well be in jail today, but he considered one incarceration enough. He appreciated being on the good side of the law, and the badge not only paid for his drinking, it also kept him out of trouble.

  What he didn’t like was the fact that, for the time bei
ng at least, he was the only law in Shady Rest. After the discussion with Gerald Hawkins, who had been pushing hard for him to take on the responsibility of being the marshal, Prescott felt it necessary to visit with Mayor Trout. He wanted Trout to know that since Marshal Pruitt had gotten killed, it would be incumbent upon the mayor and the members of the city council to appoint a new marshal. He also told the mayor that he had no intention of taking Pruitt’s place.

  “Now, Wash, you have been the only stabilizing influence in our town,” Mayor Trout said. “You’ve been a deputy for nearly two years now, and every marshal we have had has spoken very highly of you. It seems to me like the most logical thing you could do would be to assume the position of marshal. And how about this? I’ll have the city council approve a new salary for you. You’ll be making more than any marshal this town has ever had.”

  “What good is more money if I’m dead?” Prescott asked. “I’m satisfied with being the deputy.”

  “Well, if you think about it, you are the titular marshal now, you just aren’t being paid for it.”

  “I’m the what? What does titties have to do with bein’ a marshal?”

  Trout laughed. “Never mind. What I’m saying is, with young Devry Pruitt dead, you are the acting marshal.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to get out of that. I’ll be an acting marshal for you, but only until you can get a real marshal.”

  Prescott was still replaying the conversation in his mind, and was in front of Dupree’s Emporium Store when he heard the sound of gunshots.

  Hearing gunshots in Shady Rest wasn’t unusual, in fact he heard them so often that he could almost tell by the sound whether the shots were being fired in anger, or drunken exuberance. But what made these shots unusual was that they seemed to coming from the barbershop.

  The barbershop? What were gunshots doing coming from the barbershop? The saloon, yes, but not from the barbershop.

  Prescott saw Earl Cook, the barber, hurrying toward him.

  “Deputy Prescott, come quick!” Cook said.